


A Clean Cut

by Bathilda



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence - His Last Vow, Gen, HLV fix-it, Mary Morstan is Not an Assassin, Post-Season/Series 03 Fix-It, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-26
Updated: 2016-04-26
Packaged: 2018-06-04 16:43:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6666355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bathilda/pseuds/Bathilda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Magnussen is killed, Sherlock is shot and is taking the job in  Eastern Europe, but these events are entirely unrelated. Also, caring is an advantage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Clean Cut

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not a big fan of Season 3 in general, but I liked Mary well enough right until HLV. So, it's a late fix-it fic, where John doesn't have to live with an assassin, and "the other one" is also mentioned.  
> A bit vague, unbetaed and, to make things worse, written by a not native English speaker, so all mistakes and strange phrases and punctuation are all mine.

"Christ, Sherlock!"

Sherlock was a bit miffed that John's full attention wasn’t focused on him, but then again it was probably to be expected, considering Magnussen lying on the floor in a pool of blood. His own blood, that is. It was an important detail that could, but only barely, justify John's sad lack of interest in Sherlock who was wobbling and thought of sinking to his knees in a vague hope that it would stop the world swaying around him.

"It hurts!" Sherlock exclaimed a second later, not even noticing that he had said it out loud. Strangely… well, strangely to any other person except John and, most likely Mycroft, he sounded not really hurt, but rather petulant, as if outraged by his "transport's" betrayal. It wasn't supposed to hurt that much! He should have been able to control his body and it’s responses to absolutely everything, including this.

When John saw Sherlock collapsing to the floor, he instantly forgot about Magnussen and rushed to Sherlock's side just in time to catch him and save his head from hitting the floor.

"What is it, Sherlock? Easy, here. Sherlock, do you hear me? What's wrong?"

"It hurts", Sherlock repeated, this time barely audible. The ceiling of Magnussen’s office seemed to be impossibly far away, and the stars dancing in front of his eyes made it look like a bottomless night sky. _“I’m going into shock,”_ Sherlock thought with disdain. He couldn’t concentrate on going to his Mind Palace to escape the pain, and it irritated him to no end.

"Where… Oh, shit. Hold on, Sherlock, just hold on, all right?" John fished the phone out of the pocked of his jacket and awkwardly dialed 999 with his left hand. With his right hand he frantically pushed Sherlock's now ruined Belstaff, wet and dark on the shoulder, out of the way and started unbuttoning his shirt.

"People might talk", croaked Sherlock trying to distract himself from pain, but John was too busy with undressing him and worrying sick to catch the reference.

"Sherlock, what happened? Sherlock? Oh, my… you were shot!"

John didn’t understand at first what happened, but when the realization hit he instantly turned from a concerned friend into an army doctor.

"Finally. It's… obvious, John. You should have…" His tongue suddenly felt heavy and uncooperative, as if made of lead wrapped in cotton wool.

"Shut up. Don't say anything, save your strength. It's gonna be fine, do you hear me?" There was steel in John's voice, and his hands were steady pressing his wadded jacked down into the wound in Sherlock's shoulder. "You're gonna be fine, I promise. The ambulance is on its way."

"We'll have… matching scars…" He smirked faintly and closed his eyes, but, unfortunately, stayed conscious. Fainting was a preferable option at the moment.

"God, Sherlock, only you…" John shook his head and relaxed just a tiny bit.

His own shoulder throbbed in sympathy, and he knew that Sherlock was in much pain and shock, but it seemed that it was a non life-threatening wound, and if there were no complications like internal bleeding, which was unlikely, considering the location of the wound, or, Lord forbid, bullet embolism (even more unlikely), Sherlock would be as good as new.

On their way to the hospital (John refused to leave Sherlock, and the fact that it was Lestrade, who arrived at the crime scene first helped) the paramedics confirmed, albeit grudgingly and cautiously, that it didn't seem that Sherlock's life was in danger. Sherlock grumbled something unintelligible through the clenched teeth (John suspected that it was something along the line "too bad, let me die already, it hurts!"), and then the meds he had been given kicked in, and he passed out.

“You’ll be just fine,” John told him nonetheless.

Then he thought of a long period of physiotherapy that Sherlock would have to undergo, and of all the inconveniences that he would have to endure till the shoulder healed completely, and shuddered. Helpless and cranky Sherlock would definitely be a hellish nightmare. Suddenly John, though with a bit of shame, felt twice happy that he married Mary and moved out of Baker Street.

He was willing to kill with his bare hand a person who had shot Sherlock, whoever it was.

* * *

“Man, about six feet tall, dark hair, blue eyes, ex-military, in his forties, with OCD,” Sherlock said impatiently for at least third time. “Really, Lestrade, if you can’t remember this, what are you doing in the police?”

“You sure you don’t know this man?” Lestrade knew what he’d hear in return, but still had to ask. He doubted that Sherlock was telling the truth, but he was his only chance to find out something useful about Magnussen’s killer. Commissar demanded results, but so far Lestrade and his team had none. Magnussen had many enemies, and practically each and every of them could hire a hitman who killed a mass-media magnate in his own office which had no less security than the Tower. 

“I've never seen him before in my life and won’t ever see him again. A professional hitman, freelancer, leads a quiet life in between jobs. Most likely unmarried, but is in a long-term relationship. No personal connection to Magnussen. I don’t appreciate being shot, but he got rid of Magnussen, so I’d say he did everyone a favour”, Sherlock huffed and turned away from Lestrade who sighed and stood, not really disappointed. From the very beginning he knew that without Sherlock’s cooperation his chances to solve this case were low, and he also understood that even if they found the killer the one who hired him would remain unknown. Lestrade wasn’t a fool and was far too experienced to realize when the game was not worth playing, even with your bossed breathing down your neck. After all, a certain “minor civil servant”, who was now sitting on the other side of Sherlock’s bed, wielded more power and authority than Commissar. And judging by his face he didn’t seem to be too keen on finding the killer.

“I sincerely hope, brother mine, that this description is accurate,” Mycroft said as soon as Lestrade left the hospital room.

“For God’s sake, it wasn’t me!”

“It wasn’t him,” John confirmed.

Mycroft barely paid him any attention, looked meaningfully at Sherlock and said, “Well , then I have to go. Get well, Sherlock.” He smiled as if he had to be pleasant while experiencing excruciating toothache and added, “I do hope that the gentle care of your lovely fiancé who is now heading here with no doubt desperate desire to nurse to health you will do you good, dear brother. Doctor Watson.”

He nodded and left. Sherlock groaned and looked first at the door, then at the window clearly wishing to be able to escape.

“John, don’t leave me alone with Janine,” he whispered urgently, grabbing John’s hand.

“Erm…” John almost promised him that, but this very moment Janine entered the room, and John changed his mind. He should enjoy a bit of freedom while he had a chance.

Closing the door behind him, John made a mental note to properly interrogate Sherlock when they were alone. He was absolutely sure that Sherlock was lying to Lestrade and was curious as to why Sherlock was protecting the killer. He didn’t want to even contemplate on the probability that it was really Sherlock who shot Magnussen and managed to get rid of all evidence. Sherlock just wasn’t like that.

* * *

His second day at home was slightly better than the first one, and only because he adamantly refused to go to the physiotherapy. Tomorrow he would subject himself to this tedious torture, but not today. John must have realized that making Sherlock go there would do more harm than good, and left him be.

221B Baker Street was finally quiet. John had left before dinner, claiming that he had to show at the surgery at least sometimes, Mrs. Hudson was at Mrs. Turner 's, and even Janine went home a few hours ago. She played nurse with such enthusiasm and still unsatisfied desire to get back at him for his fake proposal that Sherlock was sure that one more day of her insistent care would take him back to the hospital bad. Leaving, Janine switched off all lights and took Sherlock's phone and laptop to the living room. He could stand up and go for them, but was too knackered to do so.

When he woke up few hours later he realized at once that someone was in the room. He recognized the perfume.

“If you came to finish me off, don’t expect a Christmas bonus,” Sherlock drawled and didn’t even bother to sit up on the bed, and not only because it would be extremely painful. “He will know and he will be very cross”.

“I know.”

She sat at the window, and all he could see in the dark room was her silhouette.

“I'm sorry, I didn’t want to do this,” she said, “but I think you know it already.”

“It would be too suspicious if a killer left an only witness alive and unscathed. Some might think that the said hitman knew this witness and didn’t want to hurt him. Or there could be rumors that there wasn't any assassin, and the witness killed Magnussen himself and made the hitman story up.”

“Considering that Magnussen was shot in the head, I’d say you were lucky to get away with only a minor wound.”

“It hurt like hell! It still hurts.”

“It will soon heal.”

There was a long pause, and then Sherlock said, “So he _was_ under his thumb. I suppose now everything that was retrieved from Appledore is in the grabby hands of the government. And by the government I mean your boss, of course. I was hired to get some of these materials, and I will fulfill this contract no matter what.”

Another pause.

“People who are not sociopaths or geniuses talk, you know,” she said pensively. “To other people. Sometimes willingly, sometimes not so much. But they talk, and spill secrets, at times even unwittingly, if you know how to ask. Contractors, builders, security, gardeners. There is no underground storage in Appledore and never was.”

“Nonsense! Magnussen had to keep the blackmail materials somewhere, he showed me the letters…”

“Eidetic memory is somewhat a rarity, but not unheard of.”

One more pause.

“He doesn’t know that it was you," Sherlock said with dawning realization. "You acted on your own accord. Why didn’t he organize it himself? You managed to do it on your own, what was he so afraid of that he didn't dare to stand against him? What did Magnussen have on him?”

“That you will have to ask him.” She stood and went to the door, but halfway to it turned and approached Sherlock’s bed. “He believes that caring is not an advantage, but sometimes even he cannot stay detached. You're the best example of it. When you're healed he is going to ask you to decline a certain job offer that would prove fatal to you in approximately three months.”

“In your estimation or his?”

“Mine.”

“In six months, then. Where?"

"Back to Eastern Europe. It is a dangerous assignment, and the wisest choice would indeed be to decline it. However…" She bent and whispered, "Brotherly love is not something that he could and wished to completely purge. And it's not something that the world should know. You might meet an old... acquaintance should you take the job. Though he wouldn't tell you that. Get well, Mr. Holmes."

She left as silently as she came which was impressive considering her high heels and tight skirt.

Sherlock let out the breath he had been holding since he heard of an old acquaintance and smiled. He wasn't thrilled to go back to Eastern Europe, let alone working for MI6, but this bit of information changed everything. And when he came back (he would came back, he was sure of it) he would tell Mycroft, that lying hypocrite, that caring might be a huge advantage. The mere fact of safe return would be the proof of that.

"Brother mine, the game is on," Sherlock muttered to himself.

It wasn't Mycroft he was talking to.

 


End file.
